Being Human
by KCS
Summary: Five times John helped make Sherlock more human, and one time Sherlock returned the favor.  Written for sherlockmas on LJ.  Gen. This Chapter:  Sherlock tries to coax his flatmate out of a funk, and in the process discovers the joys of motion sickness.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: _Being Human_  
><strong>CharactersPairings**: No pairings. John, Sherlock, various  
><strong>Category<strong>: Gen  
><strong>Rating<strong>: PG  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: None, unless schmuff (schmoopy fluff) and clueless!Sherlock need to be warned for  
><strong>Word Count (this bit)<strong>: 1650  
><strong>General Summary<strong>: _ Five times John helped make Sherlock more human, and one time Sherlock returned the favor_  
><strong>This Chapter Summary:<strong> A slice of life at Baker Street. And **WARNING, HERE BE VERY VERY MILD SCANDAL IN BELGRAVIA SPOILERS, SCROLL DOWN TO SKIP PLEASE IF YOU DON'T WANT THEM**

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_I_ came up with the antlers idea long before I watched _A Scandal in Belgravia_ yesterday, thank you very much. While this is holiday-themed just because that's how it worked out, it has nothing to do with the episode and is therefore technically AU.  
><strong>AN:** Written for **sherlockmas** on LiveJournal.  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: Characters don't belong to me or Season Two would have been out months ago. Title is also the title of another BBC show, which I also don't own.

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><p>It wasn't really that Sherlock had anything against Christmas, specifically. He did not, contrary to popular belief, hate holidays, but neither did he embrace them. They were, simply, non-entities, items which were wholly unimportant outside their relationship with crime. All in all, he disliked Christmas more because the season of goodwill decreased the crime rate, than because he thought trees and trappings were horrendously commercial. Growing up on an estate in Sussex, the family had always held massive celebrations for the holiday, and while he detested the mandatory socializing he had nothing against the décor and general spirit of pleasantness which lightened an otherwise dreary winter.<p>

It therefore made him laugh when he poked his head out from his bedroom one morning at an ungodly hour, to see John trying his best to sneak a bedraggled evergreen tree into the sitting room before Sherlock awoke.

He took a perverse pleasure in slamming the door of his bedroom as he exited. John jumped about half his entire height in the air and dropped the scraggly tree in the hall.

"Warn a chap when you're going to creep around like that!"

"I daresay I was not the one 'creeping,'" he pointed out, indicating the tree.

He watched with fascinated amusement as John's shoulders set in that particular stubborn stance which meant he was preparing mentally for an argument of epic proportions and holding out for at least a stalemate.

"Sherlock, look, I know it's just another thing that's not necessary to The Work, but I am _having_ a Christmas tree and if you lay a finger on it for an experiment or otherwise _so help me_ I will not do the shopping for a week," John informed him, arms folded obstinately across his jumper – a hideous green-and-red monstrosity which could only be a gift from…had to be Harry (courtesy of the M&S bargain rack). Sherlock privately thought Sarah was a bit of an air-head, but at least the woman had fashion sense.

"Why would I object to your having a Christmas tree, John?" he asked irritably, pushing past the man into the kitchen. He was aware that there was only one clean mug left in the cupboard, and he must beat John to it.

As he snatched the mug and tucked it safely under one arm while rooting for a tea-bag, he vaguely registered John staring after him, slack-jawed. "What?"

"Ah…nothing. That's…good, Sherlock. Very good. I'm glad you…glad it's all fine."

"You are surprised," he observed aloud, just for John's benefit of course, as he searched in vain for a clean spoon.

"Yes, well, you have to admit, traditional holiday cheer isn't the first thing that comes to mind where you're concerned," was the dry reply, floating to him over the sound of John's laptop blaring some horrendous pop version of _O Come, All Ye Faithful_.

He smiled into the cup, unseen. "Looking for my heart to grow three sizes this season, John?"

A small crash told him John had gotten the tree into what would be its new position for the next three weeks. A moment later, the man himself stuck his head in the kitchen. "You deleted the Copernican theory, but not Dr. Seuss? Thought you were just a brain, and the rest is transport. Tell me you did not just use the last mug."

"So I am. And I can't. Tell you, that is."

"You used the last clean mug. My mug. The one that I have said is specifically mine. As, in, not yours. Mine."

"Yes?"

"You. Are. _Impossible_." Irritation; he was safe until it progressed to frustration, which would be a shorter journey than usual on a cold morning like this when John's shoulder was aching.

"Not good?"

"Very not good." John sighed, and the sound sucked all the light out of the room. He spared a moment to wonder at the phenomenon; it surely defied all laws of physics. "Budge over, then. Why is it you'll spend an hour getting dressed to go out but it doesn't bother you to have things growing in your dishes?"

"Why would it bother me?" Indeed? John always was stellar about the washing up, and he never had to worry about it except for the three days when John was gone at a conference, and during that time Sherlock had just lived off of Costa and Mrs. Hudson.

"Never mind."

They had progressed from irritation to resignation, which was more dangerous than anger. Sherlock did not like an unhappy John; not only did he have the sole rights to moping in this household, but it made him feel bizarrely sick inside to know he was the cause of his flatmate's distress. He unknowingly caused enough problems as it was, without intentionally doing so.

"Why are you that bothered by my using the last mug?" he asked curiously, moving up suddenly behind John as his flatmate dumped a cup of diluted bleach over three scraped-out, moldy mugs.

John sighed again, and a little more of the holiday warmth melted out of the room. "It's not that, Sherlock. It would just be lovely if once in a great while, that brain of yours would condescend to actually do something useful around this place, rather than making even more work for me and Mrs. Hudson, God bless her patient soul. Do you even make your bed of mornings?"

He was not about to incriminate himself by answering that. Was it his fault that his upbringing had accustomed him to a certain walk of life which most certainly did not involve meniality such as household chores? He could certainly not be held responsible for the household servants conditioning him to disregard such banalities.

"Why should I bother with any of it?" he finally asked, legitimately curious.

"Because that's what regular blokes do, Sherlock!" A mug slammed down into the sink with more force than he believed was warranted. "We are not _married _and I am not your housewife! It's bad enough that I have to hoover around you twice a week while you just sit there and stare at me – but you won't even rinse blood and heaven only knows what out of the saucepans when you leave them on the stove overnight!"

He was expected to do that?

Blinking thoughtfully, he regarded his fuming flatmate with a calculating gaze. "Is that what 'regular blokes' do, then?" he inquired, pondering. "Clean up?"

"Or at least not make more of a mess for the other person, yes, Sherlock – it is considered basic common courtesy in the Real World." Ah, his cluelessness had softened the irritation into exasperation; a distinct improvement. "Don't you think you can descend to us mortals once in a great while and at least make your rubbish hit the bin?"

Well, if that were considered to be standard behavior, and obviously if he wished to keep his flatmate instead of running him off (Mycroft still had bets placed on Under Two Years, and he had no intention of letting the man collect) he would need to compromise a bit.

He yanked a drawer out and rummaged through it, emerging with a (basically) clean and (mostly) dry towel.

Up to his elbows in soap suds, John eyed him as if he'd just proposed making a kebab out of the microwaved eyeballs. "What exactly are you doing, Sherlock?"

"Drying, obviously."

"Ah…why?"

"You just said that is what's done, John. Do try to at least keep up with your own thoughts."

John was still staring at him like he'd grown a third skull. Sherlock flicked him impatiently with the towel, receiving a yelp and a splash to the face in retaliation.

Evidently 'regular blokes' did quite a few things Sherlock had never tried before. Things like water-fights.

After they'd finished and cleaned up the water damage before Mrs. Hudson found out they'd devolved into a splash-battle, John decorated his tree while Sherlock plinked out random accompaniment to the music on the radio. John glued the arms back on a cheap snowman ornament. Sherlock glued his finger to the table and spent thirty minutes experimenting one-handedly with solvents to extricate himself.

John decided to help Mrs. Hudson make sugar-dough ornaments, and spent twenty minutes punching out gingerbread men shapes with a cutter. Sherlock ate one of the ornaments, commented that it was at best a step below cheap shortbread and a step above moulding clay, and spent forty minutes making a crime scene with the others (complete with a decapitated sugar-man and red icing for blood).

John stuck a pair of light-up reindeer antlers on the skull; Sherlock took them and wore them for the rest of the day as an experiment on how many people stopped to stare at him in a ten-block radius. John carefully hid behind large passers-by and street-vendors for most of their walk; Sherlock made a point to bellow for him and chase him like a dog around trees and lamp-posts at every chance he got.

John short-circuited the building plugging in too many strands of fairy-lights that night. Sherlock went down to flip the breaker and was distracted by a half-dessicated mouse. John came to find him with a torch ten minutes later, and tripped over him in the dark. Sherlock got no more than a boot to the face and counted himself lucky that the soldier's instincts were dulled by the consumption of a heavy dinner.

John limped to the couch and turned on _Being Human_. Loudly. Sherlock pondered the possibilities of subliminal irony. John's head began to bob an hour later. Sherlock cautiously snaked one hand toward the remote, and froze at the instantly-alert look of icy death he received.

Apparently, regular blokes did not touch their flatmates' telly. Ever.

He had much to learn about this regular-bloke lark, and it was going to be a fascinating experience.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title**: _Being Human_  
><strong>CharactersPairings**: No pairings. John, Sherlock, various  
><strong>Category<strong>: Gen  
><strong>Rating<strong>: PG  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: None, unless schmuff (schmoopy fluff) and clueless!Sherlock need to be warned for  
><strong>Word Count (this bit)<strong>: 929  
><strong>General Summary<strong>: _ Five times John helped make Sherlock more human, and one time Sherlock returned the favor_  
><strong>This Chapter Summary:<strong> Sherlock Holmes is one of the most graceful people John knows, but even geniuses may fall flat when confronted with a pair of ice skates.  
><strong>AN:** Originally I had **reidluver** as my recipient for **sherlockmas**, and so had planned this five-and-one to answer prompts from their requests. Due to circumstances my recipient switched to **goldvermilion87** by the mods' requests, and so I only used this chapter to answer their request as the rest of it didn't really apply. But there's no reason to not post the whole thing eventually, so here we go.  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: Characters don't belong to me or Season Two would have been out months ago. Title is also the title of another BBC show, which I also don't own. 

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><p><strong>IV.<strong>

"No."

The flat refusal seemed to mystify John, who was currently staring at him in exasperation from under a snow-crusted knitted cap (Sherlock thanked all and every deity that it didn't match that horrid jumper, noting to self to buy the man something that looked less like a misshapen tea-cosy). "But why, Sherlock?"

"I have simply never had opportunity or incentive to learn," he said, arms folded. "There is little call for the skill in my profession, obviously."

"And you're, what, afraid to learn now?"

Affronted, he scowled at the scattered people gliding across the ice, some children whipping about at dangerous speeds, darting amongst the slower adult skaters. Couples dotted the rink in varying stages of gracefulness, while some others merely tottered on unsteady legs, embarrassing themselves thoroughly in the process.

"I am not _afraid_ to learn. I am, understandingly, not overwhelmingly thrilled with the idea of falling repeatedly in front of a hundred people."

"Twenty-six."

"Excuse me?"

"There's no more than a few dozen people here, Sherlock, and none of them are spectacular ice skaters." John's eyes smiled at him, their glow warming his initial irritation with being forcibly dragged out of a depressive funk earlier in the evening by the man in question. "You're one of the most graceful dancers I've ever seen, and don't bother to deny it, I saw you at Mycroft's party last year – so you'll probably take to it better than I am, and I learned how when I was in grammar school."

Sherlock eyed the skates dangling from his flatmate's hand (size twelve when his feet were actually closer to twelve and a quarter, cheap waterproofing, frayed laces, most likely he would have blisters or a rolled ankle by the end of an hour), and noted the fluid ease with which John kept his balance in front of him, silently entreating.

"I will look like a proper idiot, John," he muttered, because he was not about to just give in because of that inexplicably brain short-circuiting look.

"No, you won't. Come on, Sherlock. Even this is better than moping around back at the flat, isn't it?"

"No."

"Well it's less destructive, at least, and cheaper in the long run than replacing household furnishings because you've destroyed them in one of your experiments. Come now, get them on. _Please_, Sherlock?"

He sighed, and made a mental note to research and experiment upon why he could not seem to remain adamant in the face of this man's utterly imbecilic requests. It was most incomprehensible.

John's blink of surprised delight when he finally acquiesced was only superseded by his look of hysterical amusement when Sherlock flailed dramatically the moment his feet hit the ice before sprawling on it in a spectacular swirl of coat and scarf. Sherlock had the utmost respect for the fact that John did not laugh, though he did turn a peculiar shade of red that complimented his jumper and made him look as if he were about to asphyxiate.

Disgruntled, he hauled himself up with John's hand and made a second, valiant attempt.

And a third, and a fourth, and a fifth.

Twenty minutes later, he and his painfully bruised body decided that this was most definitely something which could be deleted instantly without harm to any of his mental files.

"I really thought you'd take to it immediately," John mused, puzzled, as they stood consuming the requisite cup of cocoa afterwards (apparently consumption of unhealthy hot beverages and a variety of roasted nuts was of paramount importance in this ritual). "I mean your sense of balance is incredible, you hop rooftops and all that…"

"Apparently my _sense of balance_ does not appreciate the finer artistic points of winter activities," he muttered, draining the cocoa. "If I am unable to move in the morning I shall blame you entirely. As my doctor, you should never have suggested such a hazardous endeavour to begin with."

John grinned at him over the lid of his cup and offered him the packet of nuts, out of which he'd already stolen all the pecans. "But you feel better than you would if you'd just been a lie-about for the last three hours."

"I will reserve my judgment on that point," he answered grumpily. "It is patently unfair." John had been more graceful than any man that short had a right to be on two thin strips of polished metal. "You have a lower centre of gravity, that is all."

His flatmate shrugged, unoffended. "Have to have something I'm better at than you. I'm surprised I don't have more of an inferiority complex, living with Sherlock I-have-a-massive-intellect Holmes."

Sherlock crumpled the cup, tossing it over his shoulder into a bin before following John from the scene, narrowly avoiding being run over by a little boy with a sharp skate dangling from each hand. "You are aware as a doctor that weakness in one limb sometimes is compensated for by drastically increased strength in another. Differences of strength do not equate inferiority. Do try to draw your conclusions accurately, John."

John looked sideways at him as they sidestepped hurrying, package-laden passers-by. Sherlock ignored him, still musing the intricacies of what apparently were the actions of the _common_ people. Ice skating was, he decided, not one such action which he needed to ever attempt again.

Grinning finally, John bumped his shoulder companionably as they settled into a brisk walk. Sherlock hid a smile in his thick scarf. Making his flatmate happy was, however, an activity which processes he probably needed to ensure he did not delete.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title**: _Being Human_  
><strong>CharactersPairings**: No pairings. John, Sherlock, various  
><strong>Category<strong>: Gen  
><strong>Rating<strong>: PG  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: a bit of trauma in this one  
><strong>Word Count (this bit)<strong>: 2056  
><strong>General Summary<strong>: _ Five times John helped make Sherlock more human, and one time Sherlock returned the favor_  
><strong>This Chapter Summary:<strong> Traffic accidents are apparently a common thing for the regular world; having uncommon luck in dodging cars and bouncing off hoods, Sherlock has never realised that not everyone shares that ability.  
><strong>AN:** I've had multiple requests to write the scene briefly mentioned in _A Messy Business_ where John supposedly gets hit by a drunk driver. This is not that story, but it will hopefully satisfy as I never intended to flesh out that particular plot bunny (not to say I never will, though).  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: Characters don't belong to me or Season Two would have been out months ago. Title is also the title of another BBC show, which I also don't own. 

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><p><strong>III.<strong>

In London, pedestrian accidents were a fairly regular occurrence. Due to the massive amounts of traffic which passed any given street corner on a regular basis, the only wonder in the matter was that half the population did not at some point during its lifetime walk into a swerving cab or get struck down by a cyclist.

If such a thing was part of this normality John spoke so highly of, Sherlock no longer wanted any part of it.

He was aware of his bad habit of rushing into traffic after a suspect, heedless of oncoming vehicles, but he did have a sort of heightened sense for these things in addition to an intricate knowledge of traffic light timing and street habits. He had never yet been more than bumped by a car in all his years of detective work.

Apparently, regular blokes like John Watson were not so gifted, nor so fortunate.

In the man's defense, John had only been following him, and in fact nothing would have happened had it not been in the dead of December and the streets covered in a sheet of treacherous ice. The combination of a sprinting suspect chase, a driver speeding through a changing light, a cyclist scooting past a bus to turn abruptly in a last-ditch attempt to not have to brake, and a particularly thick patch of said ice all combined to formulate a tableau of horror which would follow him the rest of his life, and fuel his infrequent but terrifying nightmares for years to come.

He'd already hit the pavement on the other side of the street, Lestrade close on his heels and their fleeing suspect in his sights (dead end on left, alley with a fire escape, able to cut time to destination by leaping next building and coming down through tenement stairwell), when the screech of locking brakes and a sickening thud followed by horrified exclamations and shrieks from people in the crosswalk froze him like an icicle where he stood. He caught a glimpse of a black cab and a bus skewed across the traffic lanes, vehicles and gawpers already piling up behind them, and then saw the crumpled figure lying in a puddle of dirty slush.

Lestrade's calm voice sounded tinny in his ear, already on the phone calling an ambulance, as he shoved through the crowd gathering, heedless of anyone he might be harming in the process. Behind him he heard the DI bellowing for the crowd to get back, but blocked it and everything else out as he broke through the last two onlookers and skidded to his knees beside John's still form.

He hadn't realised he'd quit breathing (breathing was boring, and was John even doing it himself?) until his head started to swim. Hastily gulping down a bracing breath of icy air, he felt for a pulse with trembling fingers.

John's eyelids flickered open almost immediately, and a yelped curse made him want to simultaneously laugh and cry – a most unappealing prospect. Strange how his reactive instincts changed with this one unique person.

"Nngh," John slurred, face scrunched up at the chill of his icy fingers. "Bloody icebox, you are. Buying you gloves, f-for Christmas."

He choked on a laugh and used the end of his scarf to remove the slush from his flatmate's face. "Apologies."

Moving his hand to inspect the shallow cut on John's left temple, which was bleeding sluggishly in the cold, he breathed a sigh of relief; it did not appear a serious injury.

John managed a thin smile, and shifted slightly on the wet ground. Then his friend's face suddenly drained of all color, and a terrible whimper escaped the tightly-pressed lips. It was a horrible sound, pathetic and agonizing, and it made him feel horrifyingly sick inside, as if he'd swallowed something sharp and it was twisting in his stomach.

"Lestrade!" he shouted over the chaos around them, before leaning close over John's white face. "Where, John?"

"Shoulder," the man gritted out through a clenched jaw. Tendons were straining through skin in John's neck, so hard was he grinding his teeth. Sherlock was grateful there was no smell of blood and that it was winter, not summer - he'd seen one flashback before when it had been a boiling hot day and a car had caught fire. Never again did he want to see John go through that. "Dislocated, I th-think," John was trying to grind out through the pain. "Broken, separated…don't know."

The air was crystallizing now in tiny, rapid puffs before his friend's lips; shock, coupled with the body being already low on fuel and adrenaline due to this prolonged case. Diagnosis: hospital necessary as soon as possible.

"S-sherlock…"

"Get a team on Pietri, we lost him at the intersection of Church and Barclay Gardens. Just _do_ it, Sergeant!" Someone dropped to the ground beside them, cutting John off mid-address. "Get your coat on him, Sherlock," Lestrade directed, a voice of calm in the maelstrom which was Sherlock's brain right now. The DI shoved his own coat, balled up, under John's head, and pocketed his phone after firing off a last text to his team.

"No." Teeth chattering with pain and cold, John shook his head slightly.

"You're lying in a _puddle_," Sherlock snapped, for this was no time to be worrying about Lestrade's pathetically ancient overcoat.

"Legs," John mumbled, eyelids fluttering shut. "S-shock…elevate feet, not head."

"Right," Lestrade muttered, shoving the balled-up coat under John's slush-soaked legs. Second-hand shop, slightly threadbare along inner knee, cut went out of style two years back, Sherlock should pay to have them cleaned or better yet, get him a pair that were warmer, because then John would not be shivering so badly as he was at the moment -

"_Sherlock_!"

He jumped, startled, at the exclamation, and hastily ripped his coat off to tuck it around John. Gentle as he was, he still brushed the injured shoulder – it was the right, thank heaven, for if it had been the left John might have permanent nerve damage to that arm – and John's strangled noise of pain rang in his ears for hours afterwards.

A siren sounded behind them – too rapid for a response team, obviously Mycroft had been watching, and Sherlock would never again twit him about his all-seeing eye – and Lestrade glanced up. "John," he questioned, while Sherlock craned his neck to see how far away the paramedics were.

No answer.

Sherlock believed he could be forgiven a moment of panic, and the fact that he was not thinking clearly enough to realise John was still conscious, just trying his best to stay that way which meant not expending energy in needless conversation. His panic must have shown in his voice, however, because Lestrade was looking at him strangely and John struggled his eyes open, brows clenched.

"Shut up," Sherlock snapped.

One eyebrow unclenched slightly, to rise an inch.

"I said shut up!"

"Er…Sherlock." Lestrade was edging toward him on his heels, hand stretched out like he was trying to calm a skittish horse. Unimportant. "He didn't say anything."

"'Strade," John murmured, turning his head slightly against the DI's arm, where Lestrade had kindly lifted him out of the puddle. "Leave him alone."

Sherlock wondered why Lestrade only smiled, and nodded; perhaps that was just what regular blokes did, humour the sick or injured one. Bizarre, the way these petty little people minimized what was Very Much Not a Good Thing by use of meaningless humour.

Paramedics were pushing their way through the crowd now. Two of them – one young, first week on the job, Sherlock was thoroughly unimpressed with his equal parts exuberance and lack of experience because his John did not need to be experimented upon by anyone other than Sherlock, thank you – took one look at the misshapen mess which was John's dislocated shoulder and grimaced.

"Mate, this's gonna hurt like the very devil," the other said (unhappily married, one child, three cats, left-handed, went into medical profession because of childhood illness...leukemia, most likely...but competent as a medic, which was most important), wincing in sympathy.

"Something they…taught you at medical school, that?"

Sherlock smiled despite himself at John's innate snark even peeping through a haze of pain. The out-of-his depth youngster huffed a laugh of relief, obviously relaxing under the banter. Even injured, John was doing what he did best; namely, putting other people at ease at risk to himself. Sherlock felt oddly like hugging him; obviously, a bad idea, as even the slightest of touches threatened to leech what colour remained in John's pale face.

Also, where the impulse to hug John had come from, he was not quite sure. He hugged Mrs. Hudson because it seemed to give her pleasure, and because it usually served to fix whatever damage he had done lately to a relationship he truly did want to keep as Good. But hugging John was not something he had ever contemplated doing, really; besides, logistically he was not quite sure how it would work, with the height difference...perhaps experimentation would be in order prior to engaging in such an activity.

Then he noticed John's left hand was shaking. Not from cold (the man's whole body was stuttering with the chill and shock); this was a tremor. Fingers were flexing on thin air, feebly grasping for an anchor in what had to be terrible pain. The medic, who was rolling up a blanket and placing it between John's injured arm and chest to cushion the shoulder for splinting, did not appear to have noticed yet.

He suddenly remembered when he'd broken his leg trying to ski off the roof of the back veranda when he was six, and how Mycroft had told him off for being an idiot and then sat with him while the doctor set the bones.

John's eyes, hazy with pain, fluttered open again as he closed his cold fingers around his friend's shaking ones.

"We'll try to get this over with as quick as we can, mate," the medic said with unnatural cheerfulness, as they prepared to shift the arm into a position for stabilization. "If you'll take a deep breath for me? Just try to relax."

"Easy for you," John muttered, blinking furiously.

What to do, what to do - ah, yes, bizarre humour was the usual method, correct?

"At least you will have a matching set of shoulders now," he offered helpfully.

He vaguely registered Lestrade planting his face in his hand, off to his left. John stared at him for a second, aghast, and then to his surprise giggled suddenly, breaking off as the motion jarred his shoulder. But the smile lingered for a moment, despite everything, and Sherlock decided it was a resounding success. He was quite proud of his accomplishment.

He reached up with one hand and reflexively brushed the pain-induced moisture away from his friend's leaking eyes, keeping his hand there in position against John's temple. "Are you ready?" he asked seriously.

A long, measured breath puffed crystals into the air, and the grip on his hand tightened into a vise. Another deep bracing breath, and another, and then John nodded, eyes squeezing tightly shut. The medic deftly manipulated the arm into a ninety-degree angle from the body and placed it in a sling, all in one smooth motion which took only seconds.

In those seconds Sherlock thought for a moment he would need medical attention himself for broken fingers, but it was worth it to see the look of exhausted gratefulness he received before John finally stopped being a stubborn idiot and passed out a few seconds later.

A few minutes later, Lestrade pried him away from the gurney long enough to throw a shock blanket around him and tell him he'd 'done bloody well,' whatever that meant.

He went to pick up John at the hospital two hours later (after he and Lestrade had caught the suspect, and after he'd ensured that the number of the cab that had skidded into John had been turned over to Big Brother for a suitable punishment – he'd suggested deportation and Mycroft had dryly informed him that was just a bit over-reactive), and was told the same thing, oddly enough.

Becoming a modern-day personification of the expression _biting the bullet_ apparently was a Good Thing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Title**: _Being Human_  
><strong>CharactersPairings**: No pairings. John, Sherlock, various  
><strong>Category<strong>: Gen  
><strong>Rating<strong>: PG  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: none  
><strong>Word Count (this bit)<strong>: 2641  
><strong>General Summary<strong>: _ Five times John helped make Sherlock more human, and one time Sherlock returned the favor_  
><strong>This Chapter Summary:<strong> In an effort to pull a partially-invalided John out of a sulk, Sherlock suggests they visit the Hyde Park Winter Wonderland, where he discovers the joys of severe motion sickness.  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: Characters don't belong to me or Season Two would have been out months ago. Title is also the title of another BBC show, which I also don't own.

* * *

><p>Evidently the Regular Bloke portion of the populace became extremely grouchy when in pain and experiencing a loss of mobility. John had been cheerful and stoic the first two days, and then Sherlock had seen how the pain medication had ceased being as effective (stupid man, refusing to keep taking painkillers for fear of addiction) and how his flatmate's disposition had followed that trend in a spiral far worse than any funk he himself was prey to at the worst of times. Whereas before John had joked along with Sherlock's crack about having a matching set of bad shoulders, now he shouted abuse at the out-of-reach top shelf of his wardrobe and hurled things at the wall with his good (not accurate, <em>better<em>) arm, if Sherlock was deducing correctly by the noises he heard from below.

He had done some research (meaning, Google and a smattering of advice from well-meaning and amiable imbeciles like Mike Stamford) about proper and usual procedures regarding caring for an injured friend, and had drawn the inescapable conclusion that he was going to be utter _rubbish_ at it.

Unacceptable.

He'd tried everything, from coaxing to being annoying to ignoring John completely, and the man only grew more irritable and frustrated as the days crawled by in a sling and haze of ineffective painkillers. No amount of cajoling could convince John to accompany him on cases (no use without a gun arm, Sherlock, only a liability, so stop asking), no amount of threats and explosions in the kitchen could budge the man for a dinner out, and no amount of Sherlock doing everything in his power to get some sort of reaction (the best he'd received was a dismal sigh in regards to the bathtub full of dead pigeons, and John had only ordered the groceries online when badgered incessantly about milk) had accomplished his goal.

Finally, in utter desperation, he actually turned to Mrs. Hudson for advice. She was safer than Lestrade regarding gossipers and eavesdropping, and considerably more pleasant than Mycroft. Also, she made excellent pound cake.

She was also, unfortunately, laboring under the impression that he was harboring some sort of unresolved schoolboy crush on his flatmate, and no amount of telling her that yes, while he did (awkward clearing of the throat, but she was the one person in the world would wouldn't bat an eye at his uncharacteristic declaration) care a great deal for John, he was _not_ in the least interested in him (or anyone for that matter) That Way, could convince her otherwise.

Still, her advice was sound, and she did not make him feel like the utter relationship fool he knew he was.

He was less impressed with her tea, but then herbal soothers were not his drug of choice, now were they?

"Sherlock, love, have you tried just treating him like you would any other time?" she asked, pottering about the kitchen with a polishing cloth.

He stared blankly at her over the rim of his mug. "Why would I do that – he is injured, and definitely not as he would _be_ at any other time."

"And you don't think that's frustrating to him? Would you be content to be treated any differently if you were the one hurt?"

"Well, no, but –"

"But nothing, Sherlock." She smiled at him over the silver, polishing away, and he observed the unconscious shifting of weight due to her bad hip. "He's embarrassed about not being able to do everything, dear. You'll find out someday, when you can't run about and leap buildings like you do now."

He had never thought of that – but it made complete sense. John had always been a bit sensitive about being treated like the invalided soldier he had at one point been; that very reason was part of why John apparently regarded him as something of a Good Man, because Sherlock had helped him rid himself of his cane during their very first week of acquaintance. This could not be helping matters.

"But will that not send the impression that I am not thinking of his injury?" he inquired, frowning. That would not do; he was working on remembering such things as courtesy - working hard at it, thank you! - and he could not have it both ways.

"I'm not saying you should slam the door on his bad arm, dear. Just stop treating him like one of your experiments – trying to get a rise out of him isn't the way."

"You, my dear not-housekeeper, have been eavesdropping at the door again, haven't you."

"Not my fault you're arguing so loudly, dear."

He smiled. "I don't think this will be enough, though, Mrs. Hudson. Surely there is something else I should be doing?"

She handed him a platter to put on the top shelf; it saved her getting a step-stool. "Sherlock, that's something you have to discover for yourself. But it is the holiday season," she added, when he looked dismal at the prospect. "And Christmas is a time of surprises. What he needs now is something unpredictable, dear. You know better than anyone how horrible it is, being bored. Can you imagine being _bored_ and unable to even do everyday things like typing on your laptop?"

Of course, that was it!

"_Thank_ you, Mrs. Hudson!" he called over his shoulder as an afterthought (he was improving, he really was, no matter what anyone said) as he darted from her apartment, leaving her chuckling indulgently behind him.

* * *

><p>John was in a worse mood than any previously by the time he stumbled down the stairs an hour later, still red-eyed from restless sleep and positively daring Sherlock to comment on the fact by his belligerent glare as he entered the kitchen to put the kettle on.<p>

He halted, suspicious. "What are you doing."

"Making tea?" Sherlock tried, a bit unsuccessfully, to look casual, and had the feeling he only succeeded in looking like he was coming off a high. Bit not good.

"With _what_?"

"Tea?"

"I don't believe you," John muttered apprehensively, peering into the mug he was now being offered. "What did you put in it?"

"_Tea_," he answered dryly. "Though if you wish me to dose you with a hallucinogen or deadly poison, I do have a stock of options which would prove highly instructive -"

John glared at him over the rim of the cup as he took a mistrustful sip, though his expression changed a moment later. "Thank you," he muttered gracelessly, looking slightly abashed.

"Do not think it will be a frequent occurrence," he said loftily, as he took his own mug to the lounge and perched on the back of his chair. He reached over to appropriate John's laptop, cracking the password before John had finished dry-swallowing two paracetamol, under the incorrect assumption that he was hidden from Sherlock's line of vision.

Fifteen minutes on the borrowed laptop (would have been twelve, but John tried twice to take it from him, quite unable to do so with one good arm) got him what he wanted, and he erased his internet history and then returned the machine to its owner with what he hoped was an innocent, disarming smile.

John seemed to think he was plotting something, and watched him warily for an hour afterward as a result, as if expecting the laptop to blow up in his face or begin corroding internally just by virtue of association.

The day was uneventful by its sheer mundane domesticity. Sherlock took a client mid-morning and dismissed them after seven minutes; case was both boring and unimaginative, and the client somewhat too full of himself for his tastes. Mycroft called John around noon; he could tell from the way John was quick to shut the phone off while it was still ringing (had it been Harry, he'd have just let it go to voicemail) and turn the telly up louder. After luncheon (in which Mrs. Hudson popped up with a plate of gingerbread biscuits someone had gifted her and which she seemed to think would do what Sherlock hadn't been able to and lift John's spirits) they actually held a civil conversation for about twenty minutes, a true novelty given the tension of the last few days.

It was going on four (John's mood always dipped lower along with the sun, oddly enough, as if he were solar-powered himself) when Sherlock decided to put his plan into action, and bearded the lion in his den (one indication of John's mindset was his unheard-of taking a long nap every afternoon). John was unappreciative of being woken abruptly by having all the covers yanked off his person on a frigid early evening, and Sherlock barely scooted out the bedroom door before the alarm clock on the side table came careening at his head.

He texted the requisite information to his flatmate instead; far safer.

* * *

><p>The look on John's face was priceless.<p>

"Have you gone mad?" was the surly inquiry, delivered in a puff of frosty crystals over the top of a massive knitted scarf.

"No?" he tried, fidgeting slightly. "Would you believe me if I said this place was going to be a target for a massive pickpocketing syndicate tonight?"

"No."

"Then I shan't bother trying to convince you."

"Jolly good. What, Sherlock," and he was slightly pleased to see John's eyes lose just a bit of their coldness, reflecting in the softly magical fairy-lights of Hyde Park's Winter Wonderland, "what, exactly, are we doing here?"

"Having...fun?" The word felt odd in his throat, like it was rusty from disuse, and John was looking at him as if he'd grown a second head.

John grinned suddenly, and he felt his nervousness fade away. "Sherlock. Who put you up to this?"

"No one," he said indignantly. "I merely thought you required a diversion. Unless, of course, you would prefer moping about the flat in a depressive funk to rival any sulk of mine, as you have been?"

"And you were doing so well," John sighed, elbowing him companionably before tucking his hands back into his pockets. "Can't quit while you're ahead, can you."

"Circus or giant wheel?"

"Not the subtlest change of subject, Sherlock."

"No. Well?"

Laughter, clear and genuine. "Tell me you at least did the research and bought tickets in advance?"

He waved a paper packet under his flatmate's nose. "Obviously. But not for ice skating," he added as an afterthought, shuddering at the memory.

They had been walking as they talked, and now paused under a brightly-lit arc of greenery and fairy-lights to get their bearings. The sheer amount of people milling about, even for a Tuesday evening, was a bit overwhelming, and for a moment he felt rather claustrophobic.

John looked up at him, a sphere of light reflected in his eyes from the Observation Wheel behind them, and frowned. "You going to be all right in this?"

He nodded, exhaling.

"You didn't have to do this, you know. God knows I don't deserve any special consideration after being such a wet blanket this week."

"Yes, you were rather unpleasant."

John grinned, and nodded toward a contraption consisting of rows of seats getting slung up into the air and whirled around, full of screaming adults and adolescents. "So...shall we?"

They did, and within an hour Sherlock discovered the joys of severe motion sickness, which was both unpleasant and embarrassing.

"It's perfectly normal, Sherlock," John said, sliding into the seat beside him and nudging a clear soda towards him. "Half the population is prone to motion sickness in varying degrees."

Lifting his head from his arms, he all but snarled "I am not half the population," but obediently downed a few swallows of the soda, all the while deciding emphatically that this was one characteristic of the "regular bloke" population he could certainly do without experiencing again. "And what is more - what are you doing?"

John was sliding his sleeve up on his arm, pressing a freezing cold soda can to the inside of his wrist with the hand that wasn't in the sling (he'd managed to bring three cans back from the stand by tucking them into the fabric).

"Old remedy when it's too late to take something for the nausea," he murmured. "Just hold still and keep that there for a few seconds, then switch to the other."

Curious now more than anything else, he obeyed, only to yelp embarrassingly when the third soda can was applied to the back of his exposed neck. "Shush," John chuckled, holding the can in position and leaning forward to see his face. "Deep breaths, Sherlock."

"I _know_!" he snapped miserably, hunching into his coat. "This is thoroughly unpleasant, John. Why would one voluntarily put himself through such misery under the guise of 'fun'?"

"People who get motion-sick usually take something beforehand to ward it off, or just stay away from rides. If you'd told me you got sick on them I'd never have suggested we start with the one that moved around the most, you great idiot."

"I have never had cause to find out," he moaned, as he pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand. Luckily, the sheer numbers of people around them prevented him from drawing unwanted attention, a small favour. "I am not bothered by aeroplanes or trains, John."

"Some people just can't handle the round-and-round, Sherlock. It's nothing to be ashamed of." John's eyes were oddly reassuring, and he was smiling, which at least was an improvement upon the surly attitude of the past week. However, Sherlock was unsure if this sense of wanting to empty the contents of his stomach all over the snow-crusted pavement was entirely worth the change. "Any better?" his friend asked solicitously.

"Not noticeably," he muttered through clenched teeth, after exhaling slowly through his nose.

"Try another sip of that soda, and if it doesn't get better in a few minutes we'll go home," John suggested. "_Small_ sip, Sherlock!"

He swallowed, and spent a horrible moment actually praying the drink would stay down, before finally opening his eyes with a shudder to see his flatmate watching him with concern.

"I'm fine," he said, lying through his slightly chattering teeth. He in reality wanted to die, and was seriously contemplating the eight different methods in which he could perform the action without moving more than ten feet from his current location.

John shook his head, smiling. "You're not fine, Sherlock. Seriously, let's go home before you sick up everywhere. Can't have you ruining your reputation as invincible in front of all these people, now can we?"

He was slightly horrified that his protests were feeble at best, though he did manage to grind out a dismayed, "But this was supposed to be -" before John interrupted him.

"Supposed to be for me, Sherlock, yes I know, and you're a very lovely man for wanting to do it - but I'm not going to enjoy it knowing you're miserable. Now come along; we'll get you home with a bite of something in your stomach and you'll feel better in a few hours."

He swayed unsteadily upon standing, and felt his stomach lurch a violent protest to the movement. John eyed him for a second, hand resting but not gripping his coat-sleeve, to make sure he was steady enough before stepping back. "All right?" his friend asked, head tilted.

He nodded, swallowing. "John, I -"

"If you try to actually apologise for this, Sherlock, I will put a snowball down your shirt. Possibly two." He cracked a smile, and saw an answering one light up his friend's face, as the gloom which had surrounded his flatmate for the last few days lifted. "Now come along, Mr. Holmes. Time for all sick little detectives to be going home."

He rolled his eyes toward the lighted strings swaying above them, secretly hoping he could get up the courage by the time they got home to vomit all over John's new and truly ghastly red-and-gold jumper.


End file.
